12 Years of Christmas
by Kavi Leighanna
Summary: Each year is a little bit different. Each year they grow a little bit more.
1. Chapter 1

**The First Year**

The first Christmas, the gift is tiny and mostly generic.

They celebrate, of course, as a team. She's so new, still an unknown entity. She can't fault them for being more than a little wary considering how the last agent departed.

But the thing is, she knows this is her place. This is her thing. So she forces herself to sit there while they all open gifts from each other, while she opens little cards with generic messages and gift certificates. Her thank you's to each team member are genuine, even if her smile's fake.

And then they get down to the bottom, to the last few gifts Garcia's hidden in the branches of the tree. One of them is for her. The box isn't very large, just a little big bigger than her hand, but she finds her breath catching. It's a real, genuine gift.

She peels the gold paper back slowly, steadily. It drives every one nuts, but she's always been so careful to savour her presents (because as soon as Christmas was over, her mother went to work and her father disappeared. She's a champion at drawing out Christmas morning). The box is white, plain, and if she weren't surrounded by a bunch of people she barely knows she'd wonder if maybe one of her teammates had chosen some sort of jewelry.

What's inside is so much better.

A tiny bird, painted beautiful gold, lies nestled in cotton, perched on a blossoming branch. She laughs a little as she draws her fingers over it, tracing the little pear at one end. She pries at the cotton a little, tries to find a card, but there's nothing there. Instead, a tiny slip of paper is wedged into the lid. She curses their law enforcement background as she reads the typed words.

_You'll fit here just fine._


	2. Chapter 2

**The Second Year**

The second year is hell.

She'd wanted to be here and yes, she wouldn't change it for the world but between Reid's drug addiction, Gideon's disgustingly abrupt departure (and she isn't at all sure she's ready to forgive him, or anywhere close. She's protective and angry and well within her right to be both) and Garcia's shooting, the team's barely had the chance to breathe.

So when the holiday season rolls around, they are all more than ready to clear the slate.

And maybe that's why they're all so subdued as they sit around the tree installed in the conference room. They're quiet and isolated, each in their own world until Garcia finally reaches for one of the small gifts beneath the tree.

This year, they don't spread out the presents. This year, the watch each person peel back the paper, reveal the gift. It's a tedious process, but even Rossi seems more than happy to let everything unfold at it's own pace. It's their way of breaking up the insanity, of spending time together and reaffirming their position as a team and their positions in each other's lives.

She doesn't quite make out like a bandit, but she comes away from their gift giving party with some neat little things. There are coloured pens and a crossword book, a Vonnegut book and what looks to be a hand-knitted wrap. They are beautiful gifts that are just that little bit more personal than last year. It makes her smile.

But it's her last gift that makes her pause. She thinks she's figured it out (they don't put names on their gifts and are surprisingly protective of that little, irrelevant secret), thinks she knows exactly who gives her which gift, but that leaves an unlikely culprit for the small, gold-wrapped package she now holds in her hands.

A gold-wrapped package that looks surprisingly familiar.

This year it isn't a partridge though. This year, two white birds are nestled in the cotton, one with a silver beak, the other gold. Porcelain, she thinks, or at least ceramic. The smile that spreads across her face is involuntary when she figures out they are not only turtle doves, but a set of salt and pepper shakers.

They never actually hold salt and pepper, but to her, they hold a lot of significance.


	3. Chapter 3

**The Third Year**

The third year is a premonition.

Though, of course, she doesn't know it at the time.

At the time she's spooning soup into chipped bowls, laughing as she nudges against Rossi's side. It had been his idea, giving back rather than giving out. The rules are strict – no gifts for each other, just for those less fortunate. Even Reid doesn't seem quite as strange around the people seated around large round tables.

A smile plays over her face as Rossi teases the woman accepting the bowl from her outstretched hands, asking after the little boy that clings to his coat. Morgan's settled at a table with what looks like a bevvy of soldiers, eyes serious as he listens, but quick to light up at the more humourous tales. JJ and Garcia slip between tables, double checking bread baskets and tea cups.

But she can't say she's really watching any of them. Her eyes are drawn to the man off in a corner, eyes fixed on the little 'kids table' that's set up by a brightly shining tree. He stands beside a woman who just looks exhausted, his hand on the shoulder of another heavily pregnant mom-to-be. He looks strong and protective, looks like he's sharing stories about his own little boy, but Emily knows that it can't be quite that simple.

He's still hurting, still reeling, still trying to figure out where everything went wrong with his now-ex-wife, even though he knows the answer. And if she's honest, sometimes Emily hates the former Mrs. Hotchner. Sometimes Emily can't stand the fact that Haley had walked away with the only thing that has ever mattered to Hotch: his family. Sometimes she blames Haley for the chaos that ensued, the stupid decisions he made and the darkness that follows him around like Pooh's little black rain cloud. Not that she'd ever tell anyone the best reference she could come up with is a kids' cartoon.

She doesn't think he notices. She doesn't think he's paying enough attention to her to see how closely she watches him. But later, when they're all set to go home, he pulls her aside and gives her a long, gold-wrapped box. Her breath catches, even though it shouldn't. She'd long-suspected he was the giver of her last meaningful gifts.

"We aren't supposed to give things," she says quietly, even as she accepts the package.

"I'm not."

She doesn't open it until she gets home – his request. Inside are three birds – she's sensing a theme – and she inspects them with a surprising amount of care. Sure enough, there are little words stamped on the bottom, 'faith', 'hope' and 'charity'.

At the time, she isn't sure what he's trying to tell her.


	4. Chapter 4

**The Fourth Year**

It turns out that those birds come in handy over the next 12 months.

To say they go through hell is an understatement. Even the good cases certainly don't outweigh the bad. She feels insane and wrung out and everything negative that should not be associated with the holiday season.

She feels useless.

It's the one year she can't, she knows. She cannot wallow this year. Hotch is doing enough mourning for all of them combined and she cannot, _cannot_, fall apart. He gets that honour this year, this time and she vows to herself that she will be strong, she will hold steady for him.

She's not inspecting why.

It is, however, how she comes up with her plan. A plan that she probably should have put into motion years before. She doesn't have an excuse.

It takes some coaxing to get the team to agree. They're all so exhausted, so focused on recharging from their living hell that it takes her longer than she'd thought. But on Christmas Eve, the whole team gathers at Rossi's. It's a catered dinner – she doesn't blame him, she'd have done the same, she thinks – and even Jack and Hotch are there. She stays glued to their side for the extent of the evening.

She doesn't inspect that too closely either.

Eventually, they're all settled in Rossi's living room, warm and pleasantly full. Henry's already asleep on Will's lap and Jack's well on his way against Emily's shoulder. When there's a gentle lull in conversation, Emily clears her throat.

"When I was a kid, we used to have this tradition," she says quietly, gently shifting Jack's weight to Hotch's shoulder. She takes the opportunity to stand, to move to her purse and pull from within a package of Ikea tea lights and a lighter. She places them on Rossi's coffee table.

"With all of the moving around I did, there were always people I couldn't be with for the holidays. So my dad told me to light a candle for each one, to remember that even if they weren't physically with me, they were in my heart whenever it mattered."

There's a sniffle, Penelope, she thinks. She doesn't look up as she breaks into the package and withdraws one of the tiny candles. With a flick of her thumb, the lighter sparks and she presses the flame to the wick. It catches after a couple of flickers and Emily sets it gently on the table again.

"Matthew Benton did his best by me," she says quietly. "I hope he is happy and content."

Dave is the next one to pick up a candle with barely any hesitation. He lights it off of hers, a gesture that warms her heart and sets the tea light down. "Emma Schuller," he says quietly.

It doesn't take much to encourage the team to kick in after that. The list is longer than she'd like, really. Zoe Hawkes. Megan Kane. Tom Shaunessy. William Hightower. Names of those they haven't been able to save and names of those they are so endlessly glad they did. The candles pile up with alarming alacrity that leaves Emily breathless as she watches them flicker.

"Haley."

Everything stills. It's the one she'd been waiting for if she's honest, but not one that makes the pain lessen. She's not even sure what makes her do it, doesn't quite understand why she reaches over to take his hand, why she weaves their fingers together. What surprises her more is the way Hotch squeezes her fingers back.


	5. Chapter 5

**The Fifth Year**

The fifth Christmas is a mess.

Nothing feels right. In her gut, between the team… It all feels like such a mess. They're all bitter, she knows, over JJ's abrupt reassignment – not that Emily trusts the story at this point. Her own past means she can smell a cover story from a mile away – and Ashley's great, but sometimes it feels a little bit exhausting, having to tug her along. She'll be a phenomenal agent, Emily has no doubt about that, but she has new admiration for her own mentors and what she'd likely put them through.

The only thing that is even remotely comforting is the amount of time she's spent with Hotch.

At first, she'd only been trying to help. Genuinely. He and Jack were still struggling, would probably always struggle when she really thinks about it. She'd set about supporting them in every and any way she could. She sent Hotch home early, shuffled paperwork and cases behind his back, and even shorthanded made sure every single one of them carved out time for themselves and their families.

She is exhausted.

So if she's honest, she'd been really looking forward to the holidays, to the down time. She'd filed for time off, originally intending to go somewhere warm, but never managing to book the ticket. She's okay with that. She thinks some alone time is good, if only to help her get her head on straight.

Jack and Hotch, it seems, have other ideas.

They keep her busy. Snowmen and shopping and Santa. She tries not to think about how domestic it feels, getting dragged along. She tries to remind herself that it's transference on his part, that they are friends and that is all they're going to be regardless of the way her stomach warms at his every touch. She ignores the way his smile makes her heart thump and the way the use of her given name makes her shiver and imagine things she has no right to think about.

They gather at Rossi's again, what she thinks might become a really nice annual tradition. They need it too, she knows. It's so easy in their line of work, the things they see, to forget the things they do have. So despite the fact that she wants to go home with every fibre of her being, she settles onto the couch, Hotch warm and solid at her side as Dave pulls out the candles.

It's all easy and normal, comforting and more than a little bittersweet. She gives herself fifteen minutes after the last candle is lit before she begs off. No one questions her, but Hotch follows her, helps her with her coat.

"I'm fine," she tells him quietly, offers a little smile just for him. She doesn't understand the look on his face, the nerves and determination. At least, not until he steps into her personal space and slips an arm around her waist. He gives her plenty of time to pull away, makes her very aware of what's coming next, but she doesn't move.

Her body stiffens instinctually when his mouth meets hers, her brain tumbling in a million different directions. How wrong this is, how right it feels, and a million reasons and excuses and hopes and dreams. It all crashes on her, leaving her breathless as she goes pliant under his hands. The kiss draws out, long and slow and savoury. She finds herself clutching his shirt in her fists when they finally separate.

"Merry Christmas," he whispers, sliding a hand beneath the curtain of her hair to cup her skull.

She feels warm and wanted and she thinks the smile that spreads across her face is the first honest one she's shown in months.

This time she leans in, cups his cheek. Just before she kisses him she says, "Merry Christmas to you, too."


	6. Chapter 6

**The Sixth Year**

By the sixth year, she feels disconnected.

It's her fault. Integrating back into the BAU fold has been much more difficult than she could have imagined. She always feels a little bit apart, always feels a little bit like a foreign entity where she'd been warm family before. They all try, bless them, but it's all very, very different.

Especially Hotch.

Things had changed between them last Christmas. So very many things and for a long time it had been so very good. Then Ian Doyle had broken out of his North Korean prison, hunted her down and threatened each and every member of her family. She'd done what she'd had to do and she does not regret her actions. The consequences, yes. The actions, never.

But she can't seem get into the spirit of it this year.

Everything's decorated, of course. Penelope wouldn't have it any other way. So the BAU is covered in reds and greens, tinsel and mistletoe and holly. She's gone all out, dragged Emily and JJ around for hours – and she's trying not to think of his soft smile, the one he'd saved just for her for so bloody long before the lies and the secrets and the whole story came out in blood and witness protection – and it certainly looks like Santa's workshop threw up in their offices.

No one seems to really be complaining though. In fact, they all look quite content with it, happy and joyous and she hates that she just cannot feel it. Hates that she feels like a spectator no matter how hard they all try to fold her in again.

She's separate now, different.

"Hey," Derek says, startling her out of her maudlin thoughts. "You're coming to Rossi's later, right?"

"Yeah," she says with a stiff smile. It's a lie, but she's practiced at it now isn't she? Isn't that what they all think? That she just lies through her teeth, to everyone. She might as well live up to it.

God, that's a terrible thought. She mentally apologizes, her eyes fluttering closed. She's not supposed to be the bitter one, not when she knows they have the right to be mad at her.

"Em?"

"Yeah," she says again. "I'll be there."

She won't.

Except, right about the time she's texting Rossi to apologize, right when she's about to pull up their group conversation, a knock sounds at her door. Hotch.

"Hey."

"Hi," she says, a little breathless, definitely surprised. A moment later, it sinks in. "You're here to make sure I come."

He watches her, face impassive. She hates it. She'd cracked through that wall before Doyle, had broken through to the warm, beautiful man beneath. And with a few deft gunshots and a well-placed table leg, Doyle had unraveled it all.

"Rossi thought it would be a good idea."

Traitor. And here she thought Rossi was the one she could count on. Maybe JJ, the only other person who had been in on the whole thing from the beginning.

She sighs, runs a hand through her hair. "Telling you I'm not feeling well isn't going to help is it?"

His smile is wry. "Rossi said something about not caring if you were in skimpy pajamas."

She snorts, but there's a smile there and she knows it, warm and affectionate. "He wouldn't."

She looks back at him then, at this face that was once impassive and is now a little breathtaking. "Hotch?"

"You haven't smiled in a while."

"I smile all the time." Because she's been _trying_ dammit. She's just… out of effort. She's tired.

"Not like that. Not like-"

Not like she used to.

It all comes crashing down on her again, his attempt at lightheartedness falling flat in the face of his honest truth. She folds her arms across her stomach, cups her elbows with opposite hands.

"It's a bad idea," she says. "Me being there."

Silence falls then, not exactly comfortable.

"We all know you're still… Recovering," he says finally, carefully, hands in his pockets. Before Them – which, yes, deserves the capitalization – she would have thought nothing of it. But now, now she knows. He keeps his hands in his pockets to keep from reaching for her. Even now, even here as he scolds her, he's holding himself back.

Like everyone else.

"No one wants to push you, sweetheart."

Her heart clenches at the pet name. It feels good and torturous to hear him call her that again. She swallows, glances away then back. She is not a coward and she will say this right to his face.

"Even you can't touch me."

He doesn't even startle. He watches her, silent and strong and resilient. "I'm not sure you want me to."

She laughs, this gross watery sound she hates but can't seem to stop. "Hotch. Aaron. I want nothing but."

Then she's in his arms and his mouth is on hers, hard and bruising and everything she'd wanted. He has her pressed against the wall before she breaks away, before any kind of thought returns.

"Jack?"

"Jessica's."

She gasps as his hips press into hers, the wall hard and unyielding against her back. "They'll be expecting us."

His eyes are so dark, so relieved, so full that, God, she doesn't care what everyone else is going to say. She cares about this man, about the feel of him, the way her hips are already arching, already rocking. Oh. Oh if they're really going to do this it's going to be hard and fast and she's already half way gone.

"I don't care."

Yeah. Turns out, neither does she.


	7. Chapter 7

**The Seventh Year**

For their seventh Christmas, she's not at home.

And he will always think of Washington as Emily's home, even if she is across an ocean and almost entirely incommunicable. He hasn't spoken to her, really spoken to her, in months. He can't say he's surprised, if he's honest. He knows he messed that up, brutally and completely.

He still remembers her face, this fragile thing, looking at him from over her straight black coffee. It had taken him too long to realize that she'd wanted him to tell her to stay. She wanted him to tell her he wanted her there, in DC, that they'd make it work and find a way and maybe she'd just find another job within the FBI, or pressure Easter for an Interpol posting in the US or, or, or.

But that never materialized.

He'd done the selfless thing, he knows, knowing that she needed this, needed to pull away from everything that had happened on that private airstrip in Maryland, everything that happened in Boston and the aftermath of her year trying to go back to the woman she'd been before Doyle had crawled out of his North Korean hell hole to torment them.

He's not over that.

He doesn't think he'll ever be over it. Not until she's warm and safe and home.

But he'd squandered his chance. And now he's celebrating Christmas without her, lighting the candles – and they'd all stopped dead when Rossi had lit the tiny tea light and spoken Emily's name – unwrapping the presents and God, he's ridiculous. He has a gift for her, under his tree, even though he knows Jack won't get it and he'll never send it, he couldn't help himself.

But then maybe he's a bit drunk – Rossi makes excellent eggnog – and maybe he's more than a bit lonely or just feeling the gap that is her absence, but he makes a remarkably impulsive decision and pulls out his phone.

"Oh my God, I know it's Christmas but do you have any idea what time it is?"

"Emily."

There's a gasp a scramble and he thinks she may have even just fallen out of bed. It makes him smile. Even after a year away as the big head honcho of an Interpol gateway office, it's nice to know she really hasn't changed.

"Hotch. Hi."

"Merry Christmas," he says softly, knows there's entirely too much feeling in the words.

"Merry Christmas," she murmurs back and he can hear the awe in her voice, the surprise and the wonder. It makes him smile, broad and wide. It yanks at his heart, hurts more than he'd like. She should be here.

"I miss you."

He can almost feel the way the happiness is yanked from their conversation before he can even think about how much he wishes he hadn't lead with that.

"Emily-"

"Stop."

If he closes his eyes, he thinks he can picture her. Head in her hands, running through tousled hair. He knows that move and hates himself for it.

"We made our choices," she says quietly. "If you called to wish me a Merry Christmas, let's talk about that. If you called to tell me you missed me, you missed that boat. By six months."

"You're angry."

"That you're going to drag that up again, yes. Yes I am. Because you had your chance and-"

"I didn't take it, I know. You think I don't regret that? You think I don't wake up every morning wishing you were there with me, that I had told you not to go? And I'm paying for it, don't you worry. Every second of every day you're not with me I'm paying for it."

He hears the breath whoosh out of her lungs, feels his own frustration and anger disperse with it.

"If I could change it I would," he tells her quietly.

"I had to go," she replies, voice soft.

"You deserved to go," he counters easily. He believes it too, that running an Interpol office is a hell of an offer to turn down. He can't really think of anyone more deserving. "But you're half a world away when I'm here."

"And that sucks."

"It does," he agrees.

"I don't-"

There's a long pause, but he waits her out. He thinks he could always wait her out.

"I can't do long distance. Not with you and not with our jobs. It's not right and not fair. But, Hotch, I miss my friend."

The grin stretches wide across his face and he thinks maybe those words are the best Christmas present he's ever received.

"Then, Emily, let's be friends."


End file.
